They say orientation week is where you learn the rules. But for me, it felt more like the moment I was about to break every single one of them.
The grand hall of Noctis Dominium is… a nightmare out of a Gothic Pinterest board. Chandeliers dripping crystals like frozen tears, black banners embroidered with silver wolves, walls that look like they've heard too many secrets and won't ever tell. All the heirs of powerful packs stand scattered around like peacocks—silk dresses, tailored suits, too much perfume, too much arrogance.
And then there's me.
The Omega.
The glitch in their perfect bloodline system.
I feel their stares sticking to my skin, like gum on a shoe you can't scrape off. The whispers aren't even subtle anymore—
"Is that her?"
"The Omega?"
"She won't last a week."
The great hall was alive with chatter—pack leaders, future Alphas, Betas, warriors, and Omegas like me, all clustered under a ceiling painted with constellations. It should've felt inspiring, like the start of something. Instead, the air buzzed with nerves, rivalry, and the subtle tang of dominance pressing down on my lungs.
My stepmother sat smugly at the far end of the table, her thin smile daring me to embarrass my father. Serena, of course, glowed beside her, perfect posture, perfect hair, perfect everything. The image of a future Luna.
Me? I slouched in my chair, bored but restless, my leg bouncing under the table. I could feel Father's gaze flicker to me once in a while—cold to everyone else, but softer when it landed on me. He didn't have to say it; I was the only one who'd ever cracked that wall around him. Maybe that was why Serena and my stepmother hated me. Because no matter how hard they tried, they couldn't steal the one part of him that was mine.
The Headmaster rose, his voice deep and ceremonial, speaking of unity between packs, of discipline, of how this academy was a place to rise above old grudges. I almost laughed. Rise above grudges? My entire existence felt like one long list of grudges—my stepmother, Serena, half the pack who whispered "Omega" like it was a curse.
Suddenly doors to the hall slam open.
And everything shifts.
Everyone glance to the entrance and it's guy from before.
He walks in like he owns the air we're all trying to breathe.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Black shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal the edge of ink curling down his throat. Tattoos—sharp lines that make you want to stare too long. Storm-grey eyes. And that aura. Cold. Dangerous. Like the room drops ten degrees just because he showed up.
The whispers go dead silent, then erupt again, louder, hungrier.
"Blackthorne…"
"The Heir…"
"God, he's even hotter up close—"
Wait, so he's Blackthrone? I knew there was just omething about him that prompted the feeling of hate from me.
He doesn't even glance at them. His eyes sweep the hall once, bored.
The room shifted around him. Students straightened in their seats. Some lowered their eyes in respect. Others in fear.
But me? I stared.
And then he spoke.
"Pathetic," his voice cut through the air, deep and edged with contempt. He didn't shout, but every syllable hit like a blow."Half of you don't even belong here."
He steps onto the stage beside the Headmistress. And then he speaks.
"Let's make this clear," he says, voice like ice cracking. "Weaklings have no place here. This academy isn't a charity. You earn your right to exist here—or you get eaten alive.His gaze swept over the crowd, cold and merciless. "Especially Omegas."
Gasps broke out. A few students darted glances at me, like the word itself was a knife pressed against my throat.
And then his eyes found mine.
I feel my stomach drop, but I refuse to let him see it. Everyone else looks down, submitting to the weight of his stare. Not me. My chin lifts. My eyes lock on his like magnets snapping into place.
It's like staring at a storm you know will swallow you whole.
And still—
I don't blink. I don't look away.
It was like the whole hall vanished, swallowed into silence. Grey met brown, predator and prey—or at least, that's what he thought. His stare was ruthless, daring me to drop my gaze, to shrink, to accept what he'd already decided I was.
But I didn't.
My chin tilted higher, my spine locked straight, and I glared back at him with every ounce of defiance I had in me. Heat licked at my skin, but it wasn't embarrassment. It was something else. Something sharper, more dangerous.
The whispers started immediately.
"Did she just—"
"An Omega, staring back—"
"She'll regret that—"
The Blackthorne Heir's mouth curved—not a smile, but something darker, the kind of expression that promised war. For a second, I swore I saw something flicker in his eyes, like he wasn't sure if he wanted to crush me or… something else.
My pulse hammered. The air between us crackled, hot and suffocating, like we were standing too close even though half the hall separated us.
I hated him. Instantly. Deeply.
But my body betrayed me, a shiver running through me that had nothing to do with fear. I couldn't explain it, didn't want to.
Because the one thing I knew for certain, as his storm-grey eyes burned into mine, was this:
The Blackthorne Heir was trouble.
And somehow, I was already tangled in it.
"Nova." My father's hand tightens on my shoulder, grounding me. Protective. Possessive. His eyes burn at the Blackthorne on stage. "Don't."
But it's too late. The line has been crossed.
The Blackthorne Heir just declared war.
And I—stupid, stubborn, impossible me—answered.
No one defied an Alpha's heir. And certainly, no one spoke about Omegas like that in front of my father—Alpha Veyron—without consequence. But what truly set the hall ablaze wasn't just the insult. It was the way his eyes lingered, sharp and deliberate, pinning me as though I were the very definition of weakness he spoke of.
The audacity.
Heat rushed through my veins—rage, humiliation, and something I couldn't name. My hands curled into fists at my sides as every bone in me screamed to stay quiet, to obey the unwritten law of never drawing fire from a predator like him.
But I had never been one to obey.
I rose from my seat, every whisper slicing sharper as I stepped forward, closing the distance between us. My heels clicked against the marble, loud, defiant. His gaze didn't waver. If anything, it sharpened, a smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth like he was amused by my rebellion.
"How brave of you," I said, my voice sweet but laced with steel. "Showing up late and thinking anyone cares what the spoiled son of Blackthorne thinks."
The room seemed to exhale in shock.
His smirk grew, cold and cutting, his storm-grey eyes glinting.
"Careful, little Omega. You might convince me you actually believe that."
My pulse spiked. That voice—smooth, dripping with sarcasm, designed to infuriate—slid down my spine like an unwanted caress.
I lifted my chin, refusing to break eye contact. "I don't need to convince you of anything. The only pathetic thing here is the idea that your words matter."
The heir took one slow, deliberate step toward me. And then another. I should have stepped back. I didn't.
"Funny," he murmured, close enough now that I could see the faint flecks of silver in his irises, the sharp line of his jaw. "Your mouth says one thing, but your eyes… they tell me you're scared. Shaking."
I bit down hard, fury buzzing in my chest. "What you're seeing isn't fear. It's disgust."
He chuckled low, a sound that seemed meant for me alone, though the entire hall heard it. "Disgust looks a lot like intrigue on you." His eyes flicked, just for a second, down my frame—quick enough to make it deniable, long enough to make my skin burn where his gaze had been.
The whispers around us turned fevered. My father sat silently, his posture rigid but his eyes watchful, not yet interfering. He was measuring. Testing. Letting me stand—or fall—on my own.
And gods, I refused to fall.
I stepped closer, until the air between us was barely a breath. "Keep looking at me like that," I hissed softly, "and you'll learn exactly how wrong you are."
His lips tilted in that maddening half-smirk again, but the storm in his eyes flickered, deepened. He leaned forward, head lowering slightly until his breath brushed against my cheek. Close enough to touch, but not daring—not yet.
"Maybe I want to be wrong about you," he whispered, just for me. "Maybe I want to see what you'll do when I push harder."
The tension cracked like lightning, thick enough that no one dared move.
And still—I didn't look away. Neither did he.
My heart pounded, furious and alive, tangled with an attraction I didn't want to feel, one I couldn't even name.
We stood there, defiance and dominance clashing like fire and gasoline, our faces mere inches apart—both refusing to yield, both daring the other to make the first move.
The storm had arrived.
And it wore the name Blackthorne.